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John Coopey Poem
I splashed out on this greetings card,
It cost me 50p,
I thought that you were worth it,
For putting up with me.
But yours, I know, will cost far more,
(Perhaps a quid or two),
But that’s because I’m worth far more,
For putting up with you.
Copyright © John Coopey | Year Posted 2009
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John Coopey Poem
Beneath the roots of the Tree of Life,
The mythical Yggdrasil,
Live the Three Sisters of Fortune,
Three spinners sit weaving still.
Our fortunes favoured, fortunes damned,
Are spun to dusk from dawn,
The destinies of every man
Ordained before we’re born.
Spun threads of rope and threads of silk
And threads of finest gold;
With every one a path of life
The Spinners have foretold.
Embittered entertainment prompts
Their play with our distress;
They weft and warp our misery
With transient happiness.
Even the most blessed threads
May still incur their wrath,
Sometimes are spun through deeper roots
To weave a darker cloth.
The rarest threads, the bravest lives
Led so resolutely,
But as with gold debase to dust
Corrupted absolutely.
They spin the hopes we seek fulfilled,
And bring them dashing down
They weave our ways to where they wish
Then laugh beneath the ground.
Life’s choices are illusory,
And false we have free will;
Oh cruel Sisters of the Tree!
Oh fickle Yggdrasil!
Copyright © John Coopey | Year Posted 2010
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John Coopey Poem
Sports Day at the primary school
The kids were 7 and 9
They’d been at the school for 4 or 5 years
It seemed such a very short time.
For dads there was the Blue Ribbon event
I always gave it a bash;
The ritual humiliation of
The 70m Dash.
Now bear in mind that some of these dads
Were barely in their 20s
While Muggins here had carried his bat
And made my first half century.
I’d first run this sprint 5 years before-
I thought I’d give it a blast;
I ran like the wind from gun to tape
And made a respectable last.
Similar results in subsequent years
Elicited standing ovations
The crowd recognised that despite getting old
There’d been no deterioration.
Year 3 I ran like a galloping mare
The fruits of my training I reckon
And earned for my efforts a personal best
With a time of 31 seconds.
(For training I ran a marathon
I didn’t finish last in it, neither!
I nearly caught that pantomime horse
But outclassed the deep sea diver).
But then I devised a masterplan
To help me succeed in the task
And at 50m I stopped for a tea
Out of my vacuum flask.
I’ve got you puzzled by this strategy
How can I be so content?
Of course I came last in the Dad’s Open Dash
But first in the next event.
Copyright © John Coopey | Year Posted 2009
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John Coopey Poem
Dear Sarah and Samantha,
It’s been a while I know * since I happened by your house in the Christmas snow.
I used to drop off presents on wintry Christmas Eve, * scoff a sherry and mince pie then
hurriedly we’d leave. * We wouldn’t want to get espied by chigglers such as you * and any
way the night was long with lots of work to do. * How I miss those mince pies from you guys
and gals, * and carrots for Old Rudolph and all his reindeer pals.
But children do get older and sometimes even doubt * Santa Claus’ existence. “There’s no
such thing” they’ll shout; * and in truth I do confess to you assistance I enlist * from miles
and miles of mums and dads to purchase all your gifts. *
But all I wished to say to you now that you are grown * is I’d be glad to help you when
you’ve chigglers of your own.
Feel free to write on their behalf, Sarah and Samantha. * I’m always here to give my help.
Merry Christmas,
Santa.
Copyright © John Coopey | Year Posted 2009
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